


maybe we can bend

by destronomics



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destronomics/pseuds/destronomics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His world tilts on its axis when Bones' voice is this empty of bite and piss and vinegar. (Kirk/Girl!McCoy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe we can bend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [kink_meme](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/4532.html) of DOOM. DOOOOOooom.

"Is that--"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well duh." He grins. "I kind of sort of figured that when you said--"

"Jim." Her voice was small to match how small she looked on her couch, blanket he brought in from the hall tucked tight around her like a bright, Starfleet-regulation red peapod.

"Len."

"This is still my place, right?"

He has a toothbrush here because McCoy found him one morning passed out in her sonic shower, her own tucked firmly in his mouth like he had fallen asleep mid-swipe (which he had). He had some clothes in her closet because he really had no problem with women's underwear when push came to _I forgot them at, at wherever I was, c'mon Bones, I'm free-balling here_ and McCoy tended towards the plain, white utilitarian sure, but was more than tired of the mental images and frogmarched him back to his dorm to stock her place up. He had some food here -- technically booze, bloody marys count, right?-- because, well. He doesn't have a key, but that's because McCoy's comm unit is a little in love with Jim, and tends to let him in with nary a warning after Jim jimmied a few sweet-nothing subroutines into its code.

"Technically."

"Get out."

He should. He's _technically_ her friend, too, and he knows how to push her buttons so well because he's pretty good at reading people, contrary to popular (and immaculately maintained) belief. But he's not going to because she looks miserable and the grip on the bottle is bone-white around the knuckles and the skin under her eyes has darkened to bruise and--

"Give me that." He extricates the bottle from her fingers, peeling them off one by one, and settles beside her on the couch. She's still wrapped up tight so he lets his knees sprawl as he takes a pull from the bottle and gets comfortable himself.

"Jocelyn?"

A sniff.

"What did she want this time?"

Another sniff, followed by Bones burying her head deeper into the pocket formed by her arms. It was, god help him, kind of adorable.

"What the hell does she--"

"Jim, stop it."

"Is it about Jo--"

"I said--"

"So it's about Jo. She not letting you see the little squirt again?"

"Give me back my fucking bottle." She doesn't make a move to grab for it, but her voice is venomous enough to make Jim consider it for a moment. He decides to take another pull instead, swirls it around with his tongue and determines, expert that he is, that Bones must really be fucked up about her ex to buy the cheap stuff and get half of what she did down before he got there. It's a little heartbreaking.

A sniff, a long pause, then: "She doesn't want me writing to her anymore. Says I'm not her biological mother and we never finished the guardianship papers so," She shifts and he still can't see her face, but the way her voice is just now, he can hear the grimace on her mouth, the way it filters her words, "she says Jo needs to move on."

Jim doesn't know what to say to that. If he was the introspective type -- and he's not, he makes a good-faith effort to do the exact goddamn opposite -- but if he was: who the fuck gets jealous over five year old kid? Because she's got someone in her life like Bones McCoy who gets this fucking wrecked over some little kid that's not even hers?

He's really glad he's not the introspective type, sometimes.

Smacking his lips a few times, he tries again, ticking off a finger for each: "She's a bitch, Jo knows you love her and you have any more of this you're going to hate yourself in the morning, doubled over in pain over your Xeno midterm, so--"

"Fuck you."

...and oh god Jim is so not good at this, he's not. His world tilts on its axis when Bones' voice is this empty of bite and piss and vinegar and is just. It's just so _spare_.

"_So_." He takes another long pull from her bottle, and swallows loudly so she can hear how good of a friend he's being, "I'm going to drink the rest of _this_, for _your_ own good."

Face pillowed in her arms and buried into the blanket tucked around her, it's hard to tell if her ensuing snort is from sobbing or laughter. Whatever it is, it keeps going, making her shoulder shake. It goes on for awhile, long enough for Jim to tuck away the rest of her bottle with a few heavy swallows and set it, empty, down on the floor between them. He lets his head rest on the couch and keeps his eyes shut until the sound dies down.

He snakes a hand under the blanket to find her own, and when she grips his fingers in return, he tries to tamp down the panic.

He's not good at this; at being this kind of friend, at being there for someone else. He's not built the way he thinks he should be, body used to taking a hit and letting it show, not. Not this. Not absorbing something that's not his own doing. He grips her hand as tight as he can, and hopes that's enough.

She sits there for awhile, letting him do that, face blank instead of miserable and that's something, right?

It's not. It's really not. She still looks small and half dead and he can't stand it so he pulls at that hand until a wrist is free of the blanket, so he can see the length of an arm, the curve of her shoulder; so he can see more of Bones than her lank brown hair and sallow eyes. She's in a threadbare tank and those plain white panties and no bra, so he can see the dark of areola, the press of her nipples.

She lets him stare.

Pulling at his hand so it rests over her still exposed knee, she turns his palm down onto the skin there, and then drags the hand up until it's just under the panties and brushing the spot of skin where her thigh meets pubic bone.

So he guesses this is his cue.

He presses his mouth to her shoulder first, then along her neck, the hollow of her throat, the skin between her breasts. He worries a nipple through the tank, gets them wet and cold and sharp; gets her panting.

His hand gets to work at her, the tips of his fingers along the slit, the knuckle of his thumb against her clit and the sounds she's making, little wet puffs of "fuck" and "yes" makes him want to pull up over her and roll her panties down and fuck her her hard enough to hurt.

She's got her fingers in his hair, pulling so she can lift his face and look at him, the expression on hers familiar even if the context is all wrong: she wants him to think about this, think this through. She wants him to consider the consequences which just makes him want to laugh because really, it's him. He's going to go down on her. It's not going to be a thing. _Come on_.

He grins, teeth out, and then forcibly bends back down, so that his scalp burns because his hair is still in her grip. Pressing his mouth to the skin under her left breast, then the right, then the slight curve of her belly, her hip, her pussy. He leaves a long stretch of wet as he goes, and when he finally gets his tongue on her, _in_ her she moans in a way that it runs all the way through, vibrating against him where their skin touches. Points of contact at: the length of his forearm up her stomach, between her breasts, fingers at her throat, at his mouth in the folds of her cunt.

He's bad at some things, yeah, but not at this.

McCoy comes against his mouth panting and cursing and then pulls him up and over her so she can get at his mouth, get her tongue inside and lap at the taste of herself coating everything. His own dick is hard and wanting against the fabric of his jeans and the feel of her, her mouth and her hands in his hair and her shaking, it's enough to make him spill with little more than the feel of her stomach fluttering, still, from the orgasm he gave her.

The flutter in her stomach turns into laughter and then she's giggling against his neck and saying, "Oh god Jim, are you _twelve_?"

"Shut up." He groans into her shoulder.

"I'm just saying, I can prescribe--"

"Hey, I know where you keep the good stuff.""

She shuts up but keeps grinning. On top of her like this, their legs scissored together and still shaking, he wants so much. He wants to run his fingers through her hair and press tiny, stupid kisses along her brow. He wants to flip around so she's on top of him and can fit under his chin and fall asleep to his breathing. He wants--

"Oof, you're heavy." She bats at his shoulders so he rolls off of her and back onto the ground.

"You are so _weak._" She hits the back of his head so he grabs her hand and holds it tight against his neck.

A few seconds pass. "You okay?"

He can hear her nod even if she doesn't say anything, and when he feels her fingers work their way between his he squeezes back tight.

**

It's almost morning when he wakes again, and Len is looking at him even though it's still dark and it must hurt a little. It does for him, her booze settled within him something awful so keeping his eyes even open makes him dizzy with exhaustion.

They're still on the couch, his fingers laced loosely in hers and it should freak him out how much it's not freaking him out right now.

Maybe it's still the booze.

She's looking at him like she's been doing it for awhile, and when she sees he's finally, fully awake, she says: "I love tits, Jim. Tits and pussy."

"Jesus _Christ_, good morning to you too, Bones." He wipes at his eyes with his free hand, ignoring the smell of her all over his fingers and his mouth. It is too damned early for this.

"I'm just saying--"

"Xeno. Midterm. Get your dyke ass moving already."

Len's eyes go wide as she realizes he's right, and she pulls her fingers from his and makes a mad, tripping dash to the bathroom and the closet and "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUCK."

His hand is still on the couch, palm up and fingers splayed, and he can't stop staring at it while he listens to her scramble and curse and rail at the heavens. 

This is bad.

He needs to get out. He needs to--

"Good luck Bones," he manages, before letting himself out the front door. This is bad.

He runs the hand through his hair -- ostensibly to make it presentable for class in, oh, 10 minutes, mostly (if Jim's being honest with himself, which he is, because he's still a little drunk, truthfully) because his hand is _shaking_ because Bones is _gay_ and he might be a little _all the way in love with her_ and oh _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, **fuck**_.


End file.
